Counting Steps
by Kyra4
Summary: He has to think of something for her to focus on. Some sort of task that will keep her grounded, keep her with him. "Help me… count," he says. "Jane. We are counting… uhm, steps."
1. Chapter 1

It scrabbles around inside him, scratching at every nerve, every aching joint. It crawls in his stomach and plucks at the walls there, pinching and twisting before clambering up his broken, burning ribs and back down his spine – only to repeat the process with his next faltering, laborious step.

It is inescapable, all-consuming. It has taken command of his every sense; it's all he sees, all he hears, all he tastes – and it tastes like panic and bile. It rasps in and out of his lungs with each raw, scraping breath; pulses in time with the erratic, thudding beats of his heart.

His entire universe has narrowed down to this, his fear for Jane. He's lost everything else, _everything_. He can't lose her too.

 _Cannot_.

He reaffirms his grip on her arm, the one he has slung over his shoulder, and tightens his _other_ arm about her waist. So far she's still with him in the sense that she's walking, or at least, putting one foot in front of the other.

But she's half-conscious at best now and, he senses, fading further by the moment.

How long, how long before she stops, before her legs simply buckle, pulling them _both_ down?

Because he can't support her, not without her active assistance. Can't lift and carry her away to safety no matter how desperately he wants to.

He is too hurt, too compromised, himself.

He has to anchor her to him somehow. Anchor her to _herself_. So she can keep helping him help her.

If that tether breaks, if she falls away from him, if he _loses_ her – it'll be the end for both of them.

"Jane," he rasps out. He pauses for a moment, but there's nothing. " _Jane_."

"...uh?" Her voice is barely there. _She_ is barely there.

"I need you… I need you…" Well, _that_ is the God's honest truth. He needs her the way he needs air in his lungs.

She is _essential_.

But that isn't what he's attempting to say. He's got to try harder.

"I need you… to help me… Jane. Help me…" He casts about desperately. He has to think of something… something for her to _focus_ on. Some sort of task that will keep her grounded, keep her _with_ him.

"Help me… _count_ ," he says. "Jane. We are counting… uhm, steps."

Her voice is a broken whisper, fading in and out. "Where g… going?"

It's a damn good question. Trust Jane to cut to the chase, even under circumstances as dire as these.

He twists his head, glancing behind them. It's dark now, and the castle – their _home_ – is blazing like the largest, fiercest torch in the world.

Which means that it is _not_ , actually, their home anymore.

There's nothing left for them there.

There's nothing left for them anywhere.

So where are they going to _go?_

He'd been so focused on the _getting away from_ , on removing Jane from immediate danger, that he hadn't given any thought at all to an actual destination.

Someplace sheltered, someplace safe, someplace they have at least a glimmer of hope of reaching, injured and on foot. Where, _where?_

"Cave," he mutters. "Taking you to the cave, Jane."

"Dragon," she exhales.

"Yes."

"Not… there."

Well he knows it. If Dragon were anywhere in the vicinity, things might have gone very differently.

"He will be, though," he tells her, not because he believes it's true, but because he has to say _something_. "He will come back, Jane."

No response.

All right, well this isn't exactly the time to make conversation anyway. Neither of them can spare the energy for discourse. But he _does_ need to know that she's still… present, still at least marginally _in_ herself.

He glances up the mountainside. This is not going to be fun.

"Come on. One, Jane. Say it. One."

"One," she whispers.

" _Two_."

"...two."

They start their climb.

* * *

On step one hundred and sixty-eight, she falters for the first time.

Gunther grunts and staggers at the sudden increase in weight as her legs temporarily fail her.

"Jane!" His voice is hoarse, beleaguered, and taut with fear for her.

"Mh." She hisses a breath through her teeth, finds her feet again. "S'rry."

Her broken apology twists him up inside. He's asking so _much_ of her right now. She shouldn't have to be upright, much less _walking_ ; she needs, and _deserves_ , rest and care for her injuries.

But the situation is what it is.

"S'alright," he says. "But we have to keep moving, Jane." God's blood, they've barely begun. "Do you remember… what number we were on?"

A long pause. Then, "...no."

He tightens his grip on her convulsively, dismayed. It's pointless, he can't hold her in herself by force, but it's a gut-reaction, uncontrollable.

"All right," he says again, even though it's _not_.

It is not _remotely_ all right.

"Luckily, _I_ do. What would you do without me, huh?" A desperate, grasping attempt to drag some levity into the situation. Which Jane promptly destroys by whispering,

"Die."

His heart lurches, goes cold. "Please do not. Jane? Please."

"Mm...trying."

" _Hells_ , Jane." He cinches her against himself more tightly still, trying not to think about the fact that her padded leather armor is tacky under his fingers. "One sixty-nine now. We have to keep going, c'mon. One seventy."

"One...sev...seventy," she breathes.

And they stumble on.


	2. Chapter 2

Gunther loses count somewhere after six hundred. Jane's head thuds heavily to his shoulder, distracting him.

"Still with me?" he asks, gritting out the words although he's hardly even with _himself_ at this point. "... _Jane?_ "

He barely hears her whispered, "stop."

"We cannot, Jane. Not yet."

She misses a step, would have fallen if not for his support. Then again, she wouldn't be on her feet in the first place if not for his support.

But they _have_ to do this. They have to. Don't they? He looks back toward the castle again, further away now but still lighting up the night like a firebrand. A huge section of roof crashes in before his glazed, horrified eyes, as if it had just been waiting for a witness to its fiery demise.

 _Yes_. They have to do this. They have to… to _regroup_ somehow, some _where_. Where else is there?

Nowhere.

Jane takes a shuddery breath. "Gunth… please."

It rips him in two. It's killing him that he can't just swing her up into his arms. He wants to so badly. He's got to keep her on her feet, though. He's got to keep _them_ moving.

He's got to _goad_ her into it if that's what it takes. He forces himself to give a derisive little snort.

"Always knew.. you were weaker than me," he rasps out.

She gives a hitching, _hurt_ little exhalation that drives a spike of remorse straight through him.

"Am… not."

 _I know, Jane. I know_. They'd been fighting back to back when she'd taken the most serious of her wounds, the one that is turning her clothing tacky with blood, the one that is, he fears, slowly but surely stealing her away from him – and he hadn't even _known_ it until it had been over. Until they'd managed to dispatch their adversaries and he'd turned, relief starting to bloom in him, just in time to see her fold herself to her knees. So quietly. So _calmly_. It had nearly destroyed him.

She is the strongest person he's _ever known._ And the bravest, the kindest, the loyalist, the…

She is not weak. _Not_ weak. But he has to prod her along _some_ how.

"Course you are." He turns his voice mocking – it's dismaying how easily it comes back to him, that tone he'd used to taunt and provoke her so effectively when they were younger. "Gunther, _please_ ," he mimics her. "What, ready to lie down and give up so soon? We are not even a third of the way there, but if this is really the best you can do –"

She makes a little "mph" sound and tries to shove him away from her. It catches him off-guard, he hadn't been expecting her to go to quite _that_ extreme, and he stumbles.

" _Shite_ , Jane!"

She gives a gasping little whimper, pressing her own arm hard against her wound as _his_ grip slackens, and while he struggles to right himself _her_ knees buckle, spilling her toward the ground.

" _No!_ " he croaks, panicked. Staggering, he turns toward her and yanks her to himself, hard up against his chest.

Jane screams, a terrible choked sound, muffled against his body. She brings up the arm that's not clamped to her side; grabs his collar, hard, in an attempt to steady herself.

He wraps both his arms around her, tightly, so tightly. One hand splaying across the small of her back, the other holding her head pressed into his shoulder.

"Sorry," he expels into her sweat-damp hair. "Christ Jane, I am so - so sorry. I should have never… sard." He swallows hard. "Can you… are you… all right. I think… it is time for a rest. You were right. Of _course_ you were. I am just… going to sit you down for a minute. Hold on."

They are on a portion of trail that has a rock face on one side, a drop on the other. Gunther maneuvers Jane the few feet over to the mountainside, then eases her down to a sitting position with her back to the rock. He makes to pull back, but she doesn't release him; just keeps her fist balled in the leather of his jerkin, up by his throat. He ends up having to gently disentangle her fingers, then press her back until she's leaning against the cliff. Her eyes are closed, forehead deeply creased. Her lower lip - cracked and dry - is firmly caught between her teeth. He still has her hand clasped in his; he lays it in her lap, then shifts himself so that he's kneeling beside her. This _is_ a brief rest, one that is badly needed by both of them, but it should be more than that, too. He needs to address her injuries in a way that he hadn't before, when he'd been so intensely focused on simply getting them out of imminent danger.

He rakes a hand through his hair – what's left of it – and fixes his attention on Jane's midsection. The location of her most serious wound is easy to discern due to the darkness of the leather there. The _wetness_ of the leather there.

The blood. Jane's precious, spilled blood.

He undoes the bindings of her armor; starts peeling it, and the clothing beneath it, away. Her breath hitches under his ministrations, and he raises his eyes back to her face. She meets his gaze; _her_ eyes are open now, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"I am _sorry_ , Jane," he says. It's an apology for his stupid, ill-thought-out words a few moments ago, and for the fresh pain he knows he's causing her in _this_ moment, but it's much more than that too. He's sorry this happened to her, to _them_ , to their loved ones, their _home_. He's sorry about everything, everything.

Her eyes are wandering his face. They're distant, musing. He's not sure she's really… _present_ with him, and that frightens him badly. He'd rather she be angry with him – she _should_ be angry with him, he _deserves_ her ire. The fact that she seems to have entirely forgotten that not five minutes ago she _had_ been angry with him – seethingly, _furiously_ angry – is deeply unsettling.

He presses the back of his hand to each of her cheeks, her forehead. "Jane –"

"You look _ridiculous_ ," she whispers, raising one of _her_ hands to his temple. He winces as her fingers brush against him. He just _bets_ he looks ridiculous; fully half of his hair is singed right _off_ , the skin on that side of his face blistered and terribly, terribly tender. He's probably in need of medical attention himself, but not to the extent that Jane is.

Frowning, he unlaces his own jerkin and starts tearing strips off the bottom of his undershirt, to use as improvised bandages. Once he has a small heap of them set by, he rummages in his makeshift pack, which is really just one of Pepper's sturdy canvas aprons, bundled up and tied off. Jane's eyes drift shut, her small, grimy hand falling to the ground beside her as he scrabbles for the alcohol.

Going after it was how he'd gotten these burns in the first place.

* * *

Knowing Jane's wounds would require sterilization at some point, he'd run into the already burning kitchen in search of something, anything, that would do the job. He'd skidded to a stop, though, almost immediately, gaping in incredulous horror at the nightmare scene before him.

At Pepper sprawled on the floor, clearly and inarguably dead.

 _No… wha… how… NO._

Why, why in God's name had she _been_ there?! She was meant to have evacuated with the royal family; _no_ one was supposed to have been left at the castle except for a handful of knights, including him and Jane, whose purpose had been to mount a desperate, last-ditch defense – not with any real hope of beating back the invaders, but to buy precious time for the evacuees.

Jane's mother had been hysterical at the thought of leaving her daughter behind; in the end she'd been involuntarily sedated. But the evacuation of the castle and the town, other than a hardcore few residents who'd refused to abandon their homes, had been a success… inasmuch as any such action could ever really be considered a success.

Pepper must have slipped away, come back for something. And lost her life as a result.

Feeling entirely surreal, as if he'd been moving underwater while the kitchen had blazed around him, Gunther had crossed to Pepper's still form, gone to one knee beside her, and gently closed her staring eyes. He'd thought that he should say a prayer for her – he'd _wanted_ to say a prayer for her – but he hadn't known any. He had not been raised in a religious household.

Instead he'd simply rested his hand on her forehead for a moment and whispered, hoarsely, "I am sorry."

There'd been nothing else he could do. There hadn't been _time_ for anything else. The room was being engulfed, and it was too _late_ for Pepper, but Jane could still be saved – _please, oh God_ please _let that be so_ – Jane had been _relying_ on him and so he'd had to keep moving. He'd untied the strings of Pepper's apron and tugged it from her body, had balled it up and then started throwing supplies into it, whatever he'd been able to lay his hands on that was light enough to carry.

He'd grabbed blindly, not caring what he'd snatched from the flames. There'd be time to sort through it later once he and Jane were safe. Only belatedly, when he'd realized he'd been holding Pepper's favorite slotted spoon – a handy cooking utensil to be sure, but entirely useless to him under the circumstances – had he remembered his purpose for being in the kitchen to begin with.

 _The sarding alcohol! DAMN it!_

Scattered. He'd been so scattered.

 _Pull it together, Gunther, for_ God's _sake_.

He'd glanced around, running a shaking hand through his hair – he'd still _had_ it all, then. The cooking sherry had been a complete loss; the shelf where it had been stored was completely engulfed and had collapsed in a shower of sparks even as he'd turned his head in its direction. But that wasn't what he'd needed anyway. He'd needed the stronger stuff, the stuff that Pepper had kept in her sleeping alcove, so that no one could sneak off with it under cover of night.

Coughing now, Gunther had pushed past the flaming shelves, around the long, low prep table, and into the little nook where Pepper had slept.

Her cot had already been aflame, which was a blow because he'd wanted to grab a sheet off of it to rip up for bandages. He hadn't had the luxury of mourning the loss of his idea, though. He'd already been able to hear the glass and ceramic of the liquor bottles and jugs, popping and cracking where the flames had been highest.

He'd reached over the flames to grab one, only to instantly drop it when the glass had scorched his hand. It had fallen onto Pepper's burning bed – it had just been dumb luck that it hadn't hit the floor and shattered in a fireball – but he'd had moments, maybe _seconds_ , before the rest of them went.

Yanking his sleeve down over his hand, he'd grabbed the next nearest bottle and spun on his heel, moving immediately to exit the small room. He'd made it all of three steps when the bottle he'd dropped _had_ exploded, setting off the others with it. A shockwave of pure heat had hit him squarely in the back, propelling him through the doorway that separated Pepper's quarters from the kitchen proper. He'd actually been thrown into, and over, the prep table; slamming against it, _feeling_ a rib crack on impact; falling across it to land hard on the floor on the other side.

He'd lain there for a moment, stunned, struggling to breathe – the smoke had been _very_ thick by that point, but all smoke aside, his ribs had been _screaming_ with each shallow, hitching breath he'd managed to scrape in. His ears had been ringing and little starbursts had started to bloom at the very edges of his vision when a sound, faint but persistent, had penetrated his daze.

Jane's voice. Screaming, _screaming_ his name.

 _Jane_. His mind had been groggy, uncooperative. But he'd managed to seize on the reality that he was all she had now - just as assuredly as the opposite also held true. If he lay there and burned, what would happen to _JANE?_

So he'd rolled over, forced himself to his knees, grabbed up the bundle he'd formed out of Pepper's apron, and placed his hard-won liquor bottle gently inside it. Then, coughing so hard that his entire body'd been spasming with it, feeling as if his ribs had been on fire _within_ him as a result, he'd crawled up the stairs and out of the burning kitchen.

* * *

He hadn't told Jane about Pepper. He cannot _imagine_ breaking that news to her. Causing her that kind of cataclysmic, _life_ -altering pain. He feels ill at the thought of it. But that's for another time anyway – there are more pressing matters to attend to right now.

Gunther pulls out the precious bottle, the one he'd risked – and nearly lost – his life to get, the one for which he'd do it all over again, if need be, and unstoppers it with his teeth. He soaks one of the fabric strips he's torn and starts wiping carefully at Jane's skin, cleaning the blood away to get a clearer look at the wound itself.

She gives a weak jerk and her breath catches. His eyes fly back up to hers.

They're wide, her eyes, and so intensely, vividly green… but they're glazed, staring emptily over his shoulder at some fixed point on the horizon.

"Jane?"

She shudders; that's all.

" _Jane_."

Her head is tipped back against the rock, and she gives no indication that she hears him. He clasps her shoulder with his free hand; gives it a gentle squeeze. For a moment there's no change; then she blinks once, twice, and finally focuses on him. He waits for a beat to see if she'll speak, but she doesn't.

"I will be as quick and as gentle as I can," he tells her. He _wants_ to tell her that he won't hurt her, never in life – but that would be a lie.

This _is_ going to hurt her. And that hurts him. But he has to do it, nonetheless.

He cleans and binds her wounds. The deepest one probably could do with some stitches, but he has nothing with which to perform such a task.

Jane gasps and whimpers at first, but then falls silent. Gunther's not sure which is worse.

Once he's finished doctoring her as best he can, he invests a few minutes and a little - but _only_ a little - of the treasured alcohol in tending to himself. He hisses shallow breaths through clenched teeth as he attempts to clean the worst of his burns, the ones that have ruptured his skin, as well as the assorted shallow, but stinging, cuts and abrasions he'd sustained in the fighting.

Finally, he takes a brief inventory of what he had grabbed from the kitchen. There's not much there, and some of it is useless – for the time being, anyway. There _is_ a jug of water, which under the circumstances is absolutely priceless. There is not, however, very much food. The kitchen had been nearly devoid of readily accessible foodstuffs because no one was going to be fed there today – no one had been supposed to _be_ in there at _all_.

 _Why, Pepper!? WHY? What the_ HELL _did you go back for!?_

He'd managed to lay hands on a couple of apples, a couple of parsnips, a few hard biscuits; that's all. There _is_ flint and steel, which is nearly as precious as the water. He'll be able to get a fire going up at the cave – assuming there's any material up there to _burn_ , and that he can devise a way for the smoke not to announce their presence.

Other than that, there are just a few small, miscellaneous sundries that may or may not come in handy over time.

He does at least have the tack from the horse. After dragging himself out of the kitchen – and finding Jane right at the top of the steps about to plunge in after him for all that she couldn't stand upright (and what a plainly horrifying thought _that_ is) – he'd managed to grab the reins of a riderless horse in the courtyard and get a barely-more-than-half-conscious Jane into the saddle. There hadn't been anyone else left alive at the castle by then, as far as he'd been able to tell. No other defenders; no other invaders, either. It had just been the two of them, and corpses, and the place had been burning down.

There'd been no point in staying any longer; there'd been nothing else they could do there, except burn with it.

The town had been burning too, so he'd turned the horse the other way, toward the mountainside; no plan in mind yet, just that drive to get Jane as far from harm's way as possible.

The animal, however, had itself been wounded and hadn't made it very far. When the path had begun to climb, it had stopped in its tracks, refusing to go further. It had at least, very obligingly, waited until Gunther had helped Jane down before lying over and dying. Gunther had stripped what tack he could from the poor beast, slung it over his shoulder along with the makeshift pack, and they'd started their walk. They haven't been followed, as far as he can tell.

Crouched on his heels, he rubs a tired hand down his face. What he _wants_ to do is settle next to Jane with his _own_ back to the mountainside, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip; wants to twine his fingers through hers and let his own eyes fall shut and _rest_ , rest just a little while longer.

But he can't do that. They aren't safe yet. They have to keep moving.

"Jane," he croaks. "We have to get up."

Her eyes are closed again and oh God, she's so _pale_. " _Jane_ ," he tries again, giving her a little shake, fear mounting behind his words. "Wake up, you have to wake up."

"M'up," she mumbles without opening her eyes. "What time is it? S'breakfast ready?"

"No," he says, caught between wanting to laugh and cry. "But it _is_ time to get up. We need to walk a little more."

" _You_ walk. M'stay here."

"Huh uh. Together, Jane."

She gives an unsteady little sigh and whispers, "all right, Gunther," in a resigned tone that catches at his heart.

He re-ties Pepper's apron, securing their few supplies within it, settles it and the tack over one shoulder, then hauls Jane back up, supporting her with the other. Because he'd lost count prior to stopping, he starts them over from one.


	3. Chapter 3

They've passed twelve hundred steps when Jane starts talking to herself.

Or no, that's not exactly right. It's far more unsettling than that. She starts talking to _other people_ ; people who aren't there.

"Stop," she says, and at first Gunther thinks she's asking to stop walking again. Before he can phrase a reply, though, she continues, in a voice so stern it makes him start a little – "this instant, Cuthbert! That is _not kind_ , and I had better not see you do it again."

 _Oh, shite. Oh, Jane_.

"Hey," he says, tightening his grip on her. "Jane, you are supposed to be _counting_. Come on now, I cannot do this all on my own. Twelve eighty-three."

She repeats the number obediently. And the next one, and the next. But then –

"Oh, Jester, _honestly_ ," she says, and giggles. Actually _giggles_. Gunther feels sucker-punched at the sound of it.

She carries on one-sided conversations with several different people over the better part of the next hour, as they struggle up the mountain.

"Mother, you are being _ridiculous!_ " she snaps at one point, in the sharpest tone she's used yet. "That does not matter at all to me, and I am disappointed it matters to you. He is a _good man._ " Gunther's breath catches in his throat. Is she talking about –?

"If you cannot see that, you are not looking," Jane continues severely. "He has honor, he has courage, and I _love_ him for it. Have for years. And I _never_ want to hear you say such a thing again!" Gunther feels hot and cold all over. _Could_ she be referring to him? Certainly she's never told _him_ she loves him, not in so many words at any rate, but… he _wants_ to believe it's so.

He wants to believe it badly, despite the fact that it means Jane's mother has apparently been saying some not-so-nice things about him. Well... it isn't as if his own father is particularly complimentary about _Jane_.

Although it's absurd to be wondering about something as irrelevant to their immediate situation as whether Jane had told her mother she's in love with him. There are far more pressing matters to wonder about, such as whether they'll both still be alive tomorrow.

He keeps trying to drag her back into the here and now, trying to anchor her to him, to _herself_ , but with ever-diminishing success as time goes on.

There is, however, nothing – _nothing_ – that could have prepared him for what Jane says after step seventeen thirty-one.

"What?" she asks, apropos of nothing, sounding thoroughly perplexed. Gunther doesn't respond; he's long since lost any illusion that she's talking to him. She's silent for a moment, but this silence has a different quality to it; it's a _listening_ silence, attentive. "All… right," she says a moment later, haltingly, still sounding confused. Unsure. "I will tell him, but…" She gives her head a little shake, as if to clear it. He feels the motion against his shoulder.

"Gunther," she says, sounding slightly more focused, "Pepper says check the ties."

This time it's Gunther that misses a step.

"Wh- _what?!_ " He asks, through lips that suddenly feel numb.

"The ties of the… _apron?_ " She is hesitant, unsure. Passing along a message she doesn't understand. "She says they are loose. She says… the bottle will fall? Do not let the bottle fall."

Gunther feels as though he's stepped out onto a surface that he'd thought was solid, only to find himself plunging through a thin sheet of ice into freezing depths below.

Chills are racing over his body. He suddenly feels lightheaded.

He limps to a place where he can lean Jane against the rock face again, albeit on her feet this time. "Can you stand?" he asks her, unhooking her arm from his shoulder. "Jane, can you stay up?"

For a moment she says nothing. Then, "I... think so?" It comes out as a question rather than a statement; not exactly encouraging.

 _Christ, is she even talking to_ me?

He catches her chin, tilts her face toward him. "Jane. _Jane_. Who am I?"

She blinks; knits her brows a bit. "Gunther," she says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world… and, he supposes, it is.

He sags slightly with relief, but his heart is still pounding, _slamming_ in his aching chest, and he realizes he's broken into a cold, clammy sweat in the aftermath of Jane's directive to check the apron strings.

 _No. Not_ Jane's _directive. Pepper's_.

He spends another couple of seconds observing Jane closely. When it really does appear that she'll be able to keep her feet he lets go of her and sinks down to one knee, unslinging the horse tack and Pepper's apron-turned-satchel from his shoulder.

The ties are almost entirely undone.

Gunther realizes distantly that he's panting. Breathing in short, sharp bursts at the very top of his lungs. Of course his breath hasn't been _easy_ since he'd injured his ribs, but this is over and above. And it's not the exertion of the climb or even bearing Jane's weight in addition to his own. No, he is… on the verge of hyperventilation, because…

He glances around almost wildly, but they are entirely alone on this stretch of trail… to all appearances, at any rate.

It takes him probably half a dozen tries to get the apron laces securely re-tied, his hands are shaking so badly. When he straightens up again, a wave of dizziness sweeps over him. He stumbles, throwing out an arm to catch himself against the cliff face. He wants badly to put his back against the rock, slide down it and just sit for a moment until he can manage to collect himself, but that would be a very bad idea.

Jane calls him fully back into himself by speaking his name again. When he meets her eyes, he's nearly knocked flat by the magnitude of grief he sees there.

"She is dead," Jane says. "Pepper."

Gunther gives an inarticulate croak – swallows convulsively – tries again to speak – fares no better the second time. Instead he just wraps his arms around her and holds her for a long, bleak, silent moment.

"I am sorry, Jane," he rasps into her hair at last. "So, so sorry."

He releases her, only to find her looking at him in puzzlement. "For what?" she asks, frowning slightly, but not in anguish or grief. This is simple perplexity. Whatever brief moment of clarity, of lucidity, she'd had appears to be over now. Even as he'd held her crushed against himself, she'd slipped away again. Gunther just barely manages to suppress a groan.

"Come on," he says, reshouldering their gear, reshouldering _Jane_. "We have further to go."

Jane says nothing. Just begins to stumble along beside him again, but she's lagging more and more, he can feel it.

The horizon is starting to lighten toward dawn; they've been walking, if this agonized, staggering trudge up the mountain can actually be called that, for most of the night. They probably could have made it to Dragon's cave and _back_ again by now, had they been their hale and hearty selves, but… Gunther shakes his head. That's a pointless avenue to go down. The situation is what it is, and they'll be lucky to reach the shelter of the cave before the sun is _high_ in the sky.

If he wants to waste energy wishing, why stop at simply magicking their injuries away? Why not go for broke and wish that none of it had ever happened and they are safe in their beds, just starting to stir with the coming of day? That the castle is still standing, their loved ones not displaced, turned fugitive, that Pepper… Pepper…

 _Pepper_.

Gunther glances around again. There's nothing to see, but his skin is still prickling, the hairs on the back of his neck still standing at attention. His unexpected movement is apparently detrimental to Jane's already severely impaired sense of balance and she nearly loses her feet, her knees momentarily buckling.

Gunther grunts in surprise and _yanks_ her against himself to compensate; she muffles a whimpering little cry in his side.

She gets her feet back under her, though; it's amazing to him, really. Her utter, dogged _perseverance_.

"I love you," he says, shocking himself to the core.

Not the fact that he loves her, of course; he'd recognized that at least three years ago; had _reconciled_ himself to it probably a good year after that – though he'd mounted a rather spectacular resistance in the interim. It had all gone for naught, of course – he understands now that he had always, _always_ been going to fall for Jane.

But he certainly hadn't expected to go and blurt it out in _this_ moment, in these… _astoundingly_ less-than-ideal circumstances.

He doesn't even think Jane's _heard_ him, for God's sake.

And if she has, she almost certainly will not remember.

Well, perhaps that's for the best.

When she offers no response, he gives her a gentle squeeze and says, "nineteen-twelve, Jane. Say it with me."

She doesn't, though.

He's losing her.

Gunther takes a hitching breath, desperation mounting. "Pepper," he rasps out, startling himself all over again. Does he actually believe she's here with them? Can that really _be?_

He doesn't know, but he can't explain what happened with the apron ties, and he's frantic enough to seek help from any – _any_ – quarter. There's no response, though.

Bloody hell, of _course_ there isn't. Had he actually _expected_ one?

He realizes that at least a small part of him really _had_.

Is he losing his _mind_?

He must be.

He must be losing his goddamn mind.

Because he doesn't stop there. He keeps talking.

"Pepper, if –" he can barely force out the words, his throat is so tight. He chokes off, then starts again. "If you really are _here_ , if you… I do not know what your purpose is, but…" he's clasping Jane to him as if expecting her to be snatched away at any second. "Please do not take her from me," he gasps out, voicing his deepest, most awful fear. "Please, Pepper, I… could not… if Jane can hear you, if you have any… _influence_ , then… can you, I do not know how, but, can you keep her _with_ me? She is not responding to me anymore. Pepper, please…" his voice trails off to a raw, grating whisper. " _Please_."

For several long moments, they continue on in silence. With Jane unresponsive, Gunther stops bothering to count.

Then, over the harsh, erratic cadence of his own labored breaths, he hears something that at first, he can barely credit. Jane is humming. Under her own breath. She's _humming_.

He recognizes the tune, too. Of course he does. He's heard it often enough. Hundreds of times – thousands, maybe – over the years, passing by, or through, the kitchens over the course of his day.

It's Pepper's favorite song, the one _she_ hums… _hummed_ … almost constantly to herself while working.

Gunther expels his breath as forcefully as if he'd just been kicked in the stomach.

He _feels_ as if he's just been kicked in the stomach.

"Jane," he croaks, stopping for a moment because he feels in danger of falling.

" _Shh_ ," she admonishes, sounding faintly irritated at the interruption. "M'supposed to… sing… to stay… 'wake."

"Yes," he says raggedly. "Yes, you are. Keep going, Jane."

"M'trying –" and even though she's barely breathing the words, now the annoyance in her tone is clear – "dung brain."

Gunther utters a sound that's two part strangled laugh, one part sob.

"Thank you," he gasps, talking to Jane… to Pepper… to both of them. Without any conscious thought to what he's doing, he drops a kiss on the top of her head. "Thank you so _much_."

They walk on. Gunther even resumes his count.


	4. Chapter 4

They're over three quarters of the way there when Jane finally collapses.

"Gunther," she says, out of the blue – she'd lapsed into silence several hundred steps back – and it startles him because her voice is clear and steady, in a way it hasn't been since before they _started_ this nightmare trek.

But speaking his name like that appears to be her final rally because before he can even phrase a response her entire body goes suddenly and completely limp.

" _Jane_ – _!_ " He nearly drops her. Frantic, unable to cope with this sudden turn of events in his own injured and exhausted state, he lets the tack and Pepper's bundled-up apron slip from his other shoulder so that he can wrap both arms around her. He's not even _thinking_ about that precious little glass bottle, so great and all-encompassing is his panic in this moment.

He clasps her to him and sinks to his knees with her, then eases her the rest of the way to the rocky ground. Her hair fans out beneath her – it had started in a messy braid, but has mostly escaped its bindings by now, as is its way.

"Jane. Jane. Jane, _Jane_." Frenziedly, mindlessly repeating her name. He checks her pulse, not breathing until he finds its reassuring beat beneath his fingertips. Then his whole body sags with relief… but only for an instant.

He presses his hand to her cheeks, her brow. Please don't let her have a fever, please God, not that. He doesn't think he finds one, but… Jane… Christ, _Jane_ … what is he supposed to _do now?_

Carefully, he straightens her limbs, using this mindless task as a means to reassert some control over himself, to beat back the panic and try to get into a mindframe where he can think of a solution. They can't stay here. They're too exposed. Exposed to the elements, exposed to potentially unfriendly eyes. They need the shelter of the cave.

They _have_ to reach it.

"Jane," he croaks again, close to despair. God, if only she'd just… but that's not fair. She's done _far and away_ more than she ever should have been expected to, already.

It's up to him now.

He realizes that he's started absently stroking the curls at her temple. He really needs to slip something between her head and the ground. What, though? He could wad up Pepper's apron, but…

He removes his jerkin, leaving only his recently-shortened undershirt in place, and folds it over a couple of times. Not the world's softest cushion, but a far sight better than rock. That done, he sits back on his heels, thinking.

It's no good, though. His mind is wandering in increasingly frantic circles, spinning, spinning, accomplishing nothing. He's too fatigued, too scattered, too hurt and worried and scared. He alights on one idea, discards it, then seizes on another, and another, and… none of them hold water. None of them… shite… Jane.

He _can't_ carry her. Even if he manages to get her slung over his shoulder, leaving all their supplies behind because no way could he carry her _and_ them, he doesn't think he'd be able to remain upright for long – _especially_ on this incline. Soon the trail narrows and the shale breaks up into shattered, jagged steps. He can't risk stumbling with Jane over his shoulder; he'd have no means to arrest her fall, and the best scenario he could hope for would be both of them tumbling back down the path. In a few places, though, there's a real possibility of them just… vanishing over the edge into the empty air below.

He might be able to use the horse tack to improvise some sort of harness that would allow for him to _drag_ her… but she'd be sliced to ribbons by the rocks and scree.

 _What can I do? What can I do? What c_ –

He's staring sightlessly down at his hands. He raises one of them unthinkingly to rake through his hair, an old and deeply ingrained habit in times of anxiety and stress, and ends up scraping the raw, blistered skin at his temple. His burns _scream_ in agonized protest at the contact.

Hissing in a breath through his teeth, he wrenches his hand away, eyes wide and watering with this fresh, bright new hurt. As he tries to blink the tears away, he finds himself staring at one of the twisted, dead trees that cling, like ghastly sentinels, to the cliffside along the path to Dragon's cave.

One of its branches has mostly broken off, resting partially on the ground, leaves stripped away by the cruel winds that frequently scour the mountainside. Thank God, at least, he doesn't have one of those windstorms to contend with right n–

And then the branch rattles, caught in a sudden gust.

No. _NO_. No, he can't handle the advent of one of those punishing gales, not now, not on top of everything else, no, _please NO_.

He raises desperate, supplicating eyes to the sky, trying to gauge if a storm might actually be coming; the day has mostly been windless thus far. He can neither see nor feel any evidence of inclement weather, though – not so much as an errant breeze.

Even so, the twigs at the end of the fallen branch scrape against the ground as it moves again, trembling slightly – ut unmistakably – before his puzzled, uncomprehending eyes.

This is not the way things are supposed to work. What is –

A new chill runs up his spine.

 _Pepper?_

As if in answer to his unvoiced query, the branch shakes harder. One might almost say… insistently.

His throat is suddenly very dry, so dry that it clicks when he swallows.

But Pepper, thus far, has been nothing but helpful. So he decides that, ghost or not, it would probably be in his best interest – and Jane's, that's what actually matters, _Jane's_ – for him to listen to her.

He stands, sways dangerously on his feet for a second before he gets a handle on it. Then he crosses to the tree and pulls the branch from the trunk, snapping the strip of bark which is all that's holding it place, with a little grunt of effort. With the stick in his hand, though, his bafflement only increases. It's too long to use as a walking stick; _far_ taller than he is, so just what is he supposed to do with it?

Sighing with frustration – he's too tired for this, too tired by _half_ – he sets it down on the trail and turns back to Jane – then promptly tangles his feet in it, falling _hard_ to the ground.

Oh dear _God_ , the impact hurts. Pain _explodes_ through his damaged ribcage, and he bites his tongue to boot, hard enough to fill his mouth with the coppery taste of his blood.

Damnit. _Damnit_. DAMNIT, Pepper.

God… damn… ouch.

Shaking his head slightly to clear it, his eyes light on the branch again, from his new, much-changed perspective. He realizes that he's lying stretched out parallel to it, almost as if… as if…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Well.

Isn't Pepper clever?

Of course, he'll need a second branch for this to work. So after murmuring an apology to Pepper for the string of _highly_ colorful curses he'd been loosing under his breath and carefully, _carefully_ working his way back to his feet, he returns to the tree to see if there's anything suitable nearby.

And there, just below the cliff edge, is a length of wood – a failed sapling – nearly identical to the first. He retrieves it and drags them both over to where Jane lies, exactly as he'd left her; inert, wholly unresponsive.

It sucker-punches him all over again, seeing her like that. Jane had killed the man who had wounded her, all before Gunther had even realized she'd been hurt; but he finds himself wishing, for a fierce, furious moment, that he could somehow resurrect him just to kill him all over again.

Slowly.

He crouches down and checks her vitals – she's still breathing, pulse regular if perhaps not quite as strong as he'd like it to be – and then gets to work on fashioning the branches into a rough sort of travois. The horse tack, once cut up with his knife, provides enough leather to bind the pieces together and create a crude-but-functional harness for himself. A couple more gathered sticks, tied crossways between the two long, parallel branches, form a basic sort of cradle for Jane's body. All in all, the end result looks like the world's most laughable ladder… but appearances aside, it just might mean the difference between the two of them making it to the cave, versus being trapped out on the mountainside until the winds _do_ come.

 _Thank you, Pepper._ Thank _you_.

He gathers Jane up and lies her across it – and instantly sees, heart sinking, that it's not going to work. It would work if she were conscious – although, if she were conscious, there wouldn't be a need for it in the first place – but she's completely limp, and she's also quite slender, and in her insensible state there's a real possibility that she could slip right through the supports.

Even if _most_ of her stayed in place, she could still easily drop a hand or arm through to trail on the ground, and with him facing front and dragging the contraption along behind him, whatever part of her was exposed in such a manner would be liable to be scraped bare before he ever noticed.

He raises his hands to clench in his hair in frustration - remembers the state of his head just in time, and forces them down again.

After a moment's thought, he shifts Jane gently back onto the ground, removes his undershirt and pulls it over the frame of the travois, tugging it down until the fabric is stretched tight - then hunkers to examine his work.

...Much improved.

Jane won't slide through now. She's shorter than he is, and oh how she'd sulked when he'd hit that final growth spurt and she'd realized that there would be no catching up. He'd teased her then, rather pitilessly actually – it had been highly amusing to him because of _course_ he was going to end up taller. Men are taller than women. She might as well rant against the sky being blue. But he's pathetically grateful now, because it means that most of her body will be supported by the length of his shirt, even truncated as it is from when he'd ripped those bandage strips off the bottom.

Better still, he can tie the sleeves around her, securing her in place even a little bit more.

Satisfied, he pulls her into his arms again – pausing for a moment just to _hold_ her, to hug her tight and offer up a silent prayer that they will – that _she_ will – make it through this. _Please, Jane, please._ Then he lowers her carefully onto the travois.

He'd been concerned that her dragon sword, which all this while has been strapped across her back, might be awkward, unmanageable in this situation. But it doesn't make things any worse than they already are. No better… but no worse. He crosses her arms over her body and ties them in place with his shirtsleeves, then picks up the jerkin he'd used to cushion her head and pulls it back on, grimacing as he does so. Every bit of him aches and this is not going to be easy. At least, hopefully, whatever scant padding the leather affords him will keep the rough wood of his creation from irritating his already-damaged sides still further.

He takes a couple of breaths, as deep as he can – which isn't very, given the state of his ribs – in an attempt to ground himself. Then he reshoulders his improvised pack – _again_ – after making sure that, thank God, the bottle hadn't broken when he'd dropped it. He picks up the poles of the travois, and takes a step. And then another.

Under what little breath he's managed to catch, he restarts his count.


	5. Chapter 5

He nearly makes it.

He's on the final approach to the cave, the place where the path levels out and widens into a broad ledge where he knows that in happier days, Jane and Dragon had liked to sun themselves and gaze out over the kingdom. The grueling climb is behind him, the mouth of the cave in sight. The sun is up and he can look down and see the smoking remains of the castle, of his _home_ , although he's been making a concerted effort _not_ to. Every inch of him is sweat-slick, and he's shivering, breathing in short, sharp, pained little gasps. But they're almost there, they're _almost there_ –

And one of the two main support posts of the travois snaps in half.

The whole contraption _jerks_ and Gunther, caught off-guard and already far from steady on his feet, loses his footing and goes hard to his knees.

Pain rips through him, not just at the points of impact but everywhere. It's almost more than he can take. He braces his hands on the ground, head bowed forward, his hair – what's left of it – drenched with perspiration and hanging in his face. The sweat _burns_ the blisters that have developed there and he supposes he should be grateful the mangled nerves can feel anything at all.

He has to regroup, to pull himself together. It's no good, though.

Collapsing to his side on the rough rock, he shrugs off his makeshift pack, wraps his arms around his battered body and for a long moment he just lies there, in silent agony, entirely defeated by the situation, struggling to breathe.

Had he been alone, he might never have gotten up again.

But he's _not_ alone. He's not.

He has Jane with him, and he is responsible for her now; she is depending on him. _She'd_ kept putting one stumbling foot in front of the other until she'd fallen down senseless; he owes it to her, to her incredible determination and indomitable will, to do no less.

They've made it this far. They are nearly within spitting distance of their objective.

He needs to finish this.

Shuddering, groaning, he pushes himself back to his knees and crawls the few feet over to Jane.

So still. God above, she's so still and with the sun now well up he can truly see how _pale_ she is too. "Juh...J-Jane," he stammers, pressing his hand briefly to her cheek before seeking out her pulse again.

 _Still there_.

He unties the sleeves of his shirt that had been holding her snugly in place. It takes _far_ longer than it ought, his body apparently contemplating open revolt against the commands of his mind, but in the end he prevails, and frees her.

Biting his lip, struggling to focus, he checks her bandages, runs his fingers over the skin above and below them, searching for warmth or redness that shouldn't be there, any sign that infection might be taking hold.

There are no indications of such, as far as he can tell.

He releases a shaking breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"All right," he mutters. "All right, Jane. I just have to get you inside now."

He hooks her arm around his neck, pulling her against him and up, into a quasi-sitting position. Her head thunks gently against his shoulder before falling forward and he feels with every fiber of his being just how _wrong_ this is, her being so pliant, so _limp_ when he's accustomed to Jane as this crackling, dynamic _force_ , this font of what seems to him, at times, to be nearly _boundless_ energy and enthusiasm.

It honestly drives him crazy sometimes, right up the wall. He'll catch himself wishing that she'd just stop, _stop_ already –

He will never wish for that again. Not for as long as he lives, not now that he knows what that looks like. What it _feels_ like, to be deprived of her vivacity, her stubborn _tenacity_ , her inexhaustible optimism, her ability to find a scrap of good in almost any situation, her…

Her.

To be deprived of _her_.

He grabs her wrist, locking her arm in place; wraps his other arm around her waist and, using the nearby rock ledge as a support, staggers to his feet, pulling her up with him.

"Ugh," he grunts, back pressed to the mountainside, Jane's weight nearly pulling him over sideways as he struggles to right them both, firm up his grip on her. "You weigh a… sarding _ton_ , Jane Turnkey."

It's exquisitely painful to imagine what her rejoinder might be, if she were in any condition to give one. There's no price he wouldn't pay to hear her huff in annoyance, tell him it's hardly _her_ fault if he's a weakling, lob some childish, dung-related insult or other at him. Anything.

She should not be passive in the face of such words.

 _Anything_ , Jane.

Please.

She remains silent and lifeless, hanging against him, his own flagging strength the only thing keeping her from crumpling back to the ground.

He remembers thinking, not long after they'd started, that if he lost her collaboration it would be over, he wouldn't be able to go on. But he knows now that that isn't true. He has to get her into the safety of the cave. Has to. _HAS_ to.

He doesn't know how he's going to manage to carry her; he only knows that with all other options removed, he _will_. His face pulled into a rictus of pain and concentration, he slides her sword out of its over-the-shoulder scabbard, and drops it to the ground with a dull clang. It would make carrying her too unwieldy; he'll come back for it, and the provisions still bundled in Pepper's apron, after he gets Jane situated.

"Steady," he grits out, unsure of whether he's talking to Jane or to himself. Then, still bracing himself heavily against the unyielding rock, he stoops and slips an arm behind her knees and swings her – more like _heaves_ her – up until she's cradled against his chest.

His ribs are _screaming_.

"You could… help… me… a _little_ , you un…cooperative brat," he pants brokenly, struggling not to drop her, struggling not to _fall_. There's no bite to the words, of course; if anything, it's a desperate grasp at normalcy, at the sort of bickering and grousing that constitutes the backbone of their sometimes contentious, but _fiercely_ loyal, relationship with each other. He has no doubt she would have much the same words for him, were their roles reversed – and wishes with aching intensity, as he adjusts her in his arms, that that were so.

When he feels he has as firm a grip on her as he's going to get, he raises his head and stares across the wide ledge of wind-scoured rock at the mouth of Dragon's cave. God help him, it looks so far away.

He's barely keeping his feet as it _is_ , standing immobile and with a wall of rock at his back, supporting him. How the hell is he supposed to cross all that empty space?

He'll never make it.

"Oh yes we will," he mutters, almost feverishly. "We have to. Ready, Jane?"

He'll just have to assume that silence implies consent.

He takes a single, staggering step.

 _One_.

And then another.

 _Two_.

His raw, jagged breaths sear his lungs.

 _Three_.

He wants to reassure her, tell her that he has her, that he'll never let her go, will protect her to his last breath, that they're almost safe. That _she's_ almost safe. But forming words, forcing them up and out of his burning throat, feels about as attainable as flying to the moon.

 _Four_.

One impossible task at a time, and for now it's simply walking.

 _Five… six… seven_.

On step nineteen, over halfway there, he starts to go down. There's no external reason, no gust of wind, no loose scree to trip him; his legs just give out, start to buckle beneath him.

He hisses a breath through clenched teeth and tries to twist himself so that at least _he_ will be the one to take the brunt of the impact, not Jane; tries to _brace_ himself because the pain, God's blood, the pain is going to be _astounding_.

And then he's caught, and steadied.

It's the strangest thing he's ever felt. The strangest thing he thinks he ever _will_. Because he and Jane are alone. _Alone_. There is _no one_ with them on this barren jut of rock.

But he's caught and steadied all the same.

He can feel the arms, the hands, each _finger_ , distinct. Small – compared to him, at least – but strong, this unseen person who rights him, who bears him up.

He's so shocked that he loses his count – but he doesn't lose his _feet_ , and that's what matters. When he makes it, stumbling, into the cave and sinks down to place Jane gently on the floor, he realizes he's crying.

All composure gone, he drops his face into his hands, careful to avoid the damaged skin at his temple, and for a moment he just sobs.

* * *

Tears are a luxury, however, that he cannot afford to sustain for long. There is more to be done. He drags himself back to his feet and then stares around for a space of heartbeats, getting his bearings.

The rush of relief that swamps him is nearly enough to knock him clear back to the floor.

He'd been hoping that Jane might have some supplies laid by up here… but he hadn't let himself hope too hard, afraid of being crushed if it turned out not to be the case.

He needn't have worried.

 _Oh, Jane_.

His amazing, resourceful, wholly _beautiful_ Jane.

There are supplies.

A few yards in from the main opening there is a small scoop in one of the rock walls, a natural little _chamber_ almost, which Jane appears to have designated as a kind of a storeroom.

There are blankets in there, a couple of changes of clothes, a heavy, fur-lined cloak; hell, even a _pillow_. One corner of the space is stacked with firewood, a good-sized cookpot sitting atop the pile. Closer inspection reveals a second, smaller pot nestled within it, and inside _that_ , a few crude dishes, some dried herbs and tea.

There's food, too; not an enormous quantity, but more – _far_ more – than he had dared imagine. The back wall of the little area is lined with clay pots of food, most sealed shut with beeswax to keep the contents fresh and safe from vermin. Not that Gunther would expect too many animals to venture into a _dragon's_ cave, but Jane is nothing if not thorough. The sealed pots have rough charcoal sketches on them to indicate their contents. Pickled eggs and vegetables, fish packed in oil, fish packed in salt. Barley, oats, dried beans. A jar of honey, dried apples packed in sand.

There are _fresh_ apples too, in a covered bowl – although they're small and _well_ on their way to going mealy. In the darkest corner is a heap of cabbages, possibly intended for Dragon, and some carrots and onions. A cursory glance is all it takes for him to ascertain that some of the vegetables are gone beyond recovery… but others appear to still be in an edible state, even if rather past their prime. Beggars can't be choosers, and he's just so grateful.

 _So_ grateful.

Nor is that all. In the name of all that's good and holy, there are barrels – three _BARRELS_ , Dragon must have carried them up at some point – of water.

There's even a medical kit.

He's nearly overcome. There are enough provisions here to last them easily a fortnight. Enough time to rest and regroup, enough time for him to nurse Jane back to health – which he _will_ , because there is no acceptable alternative – and for them to strategize their next move.

It's remarkable.

He glances from the supplies to Jane and back again. It's as if she's still partnering with him, still pulling her weight – hell, pulling _both_ their weight – _still has his back_ , even in her current, deeply unconscious state.

He knows that she sleeps up here occasionally – or _had_ , until Dragon's recent departure – and so it hadn't been too farfetched to anticipate that there would be _some_ food and comfort items. But this… _this_ … had she been _planning_ for something like this? Quietly, methodically setting things by in case of emergency?

Sir Theodore always _had_ expounded on the virtues of being prepared for any contingency. And _Jane_ always had been a far more attentive pupil than he.

No wonder he loves her so deeply, so fiercely much.

He has to swallow back another sob.

 _Focus, Gunther_. There is more, yet, to do.

It's hard to walk past Jane. All he wants to do is lie down beside her, curl into her warmth. But he makes himself go back outside, cross the ledge of rock that constitutes Dragon's "porch", over to the place where the travois had broken, where he'd abandoned their few belongings in order to carry Jane.

He reshoulders the pack for what feels like the thousandth time since they'd begun their wounded, stumbling exodus; picks up her sword in one hand and the nearer pole of the travois in the other. He can drag it easily _now_ , even single-handedly. He pulls it over to the cave.

Leaving the travois and pack just inside the entrance, he takes Jane's sword back out to the center of the wide, empty area and uses it to summon Dragon.

Well, to try.

He doesn't really expect that Dragon is anywhere in range – but he'll keep trying anyway, every few hours, just hoping… hoping. Luck has been with them so far, after all. They've survived, they've made it here, they haven't been followed, they found provisions ready and waiting.

...Although _that_ part hadn't been luck. That part had been pure Jane.

Pure, wonderful Jane.

In any event though, all injuries aside, they've had a run of rather amazing good fortune, so maybe, _maybe_ it's not too much to hope that it hasn't yet exhausted itself and somehow, Dragon will hear. Will come.

In the interim, however, it's time to go to Jane.

His exhausted body sags with relief at the thought.

He digs deep and finds the energy, somehow, to tug her further inside and around a small outcropping of rock so that, _should_ a wind begin to blow, they will be out of its path. The ceiling of the cavern is quite high here, allowing for smoke to dissipate, and the fact that they're deeper into the cave and around a little bend means that a fire won't be seen from the outside, so he decides to indulge.

He gets a small one going with a bit of the wood that Jane set by, then retrieves the blankets, pillow, and fur-lined cloak, fashioning them into a sort of… _nest_ that the two of them can share.

His head is _spinning_ with fatigue by the time he gets Jane situated and checks her bandages yet again. Everything looks fine for the nonce – he'll need to change them in a few hours, repack her deepest wound, maybe even stitch it up if there are appropriate supplies in the medical kit Jane squirreled away up here… but he needs to rest first. In his current state he'd be likelier to bungle such an undertaking than not.

He sinks down next to her, molds his body to hers, tugs the stupendously soft and warm cloak over both of them. Slips one arm beneath her head; snugs the other one, protectively, around her body, careful to avoid the hurt bits.

Drops a soft kiss on her temple.

Wonders fleetingly what her reaction would be, were she in any condition to _have_ a reaction. Feels his heart constrict at the thought. He'd welcome anything, literally _anything_ , an expression of horror, a sound telling-off, a ringing slap. Anything at all.

Although a positive response would be… nicer.

He gets nothing, though. And he's so tired at this point that he feels _drugged_ with it, unable to ponder their situation any further for the time being. His head nestled beside hers on the one pillow, he inhales the scent of her hair as his eyes drag themselves slowly shut.

His breathing evens out, deepens.

He tries to whisper, "thank you, Pepper."

He tries to whisper, "I love you, Jane."

He manages neither; is incapable of producing anything but a gravelly, inarticulate mumble.

The last thing he does is attempt to count Jane's breaths – he's so profoundly, eternally grateful for every single one of them – but he only reaches four, and then he's gone, gone.

* * *

An indeterminate amount of time later – the little fire has burned itself out – Gunther tightens his arms around Jane in his sleep, and dreams of wingbeats, coming closer.

He starts to count those too.


End file.
